


untitled coda

by some_stars



Series: children's work [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: First Time, M/M, softe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-01
Updated: 2020-07-01
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:34:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25018600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/some_stars/pseuds/some_stars
Summary: Geralt and Jaskier's first time, the next morning. (Previously posted to Tumblr.)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: children's work [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1807540
Comments: 13
Kudos: 575





	untitled coda

**Author's Note:**

> Now that this is an actual series I figured I might as well put this up for filing purposes, even though you've probably already read it.

He wakes up before Geralt for what he’s fairly sure is the first time ever, and so he has to confront the fact that he’s drooled in Geralt’s hair.

The first thing he has to confront, actually, is that he’s spooning Geralt, because for a terrible cold moment he doesn’t remember that he’s allowed to do that now, and his heart catches in his throat as every muscle freezes.

Then Geralt makes a soft sleepy noise and snuggles closer back against him, and memory returns, and he has to deal with the drool issue. He doesn’t get long to worry about it, though, because Geralt is rolling over to face him, and his face is so unfamiliarly soft Jaskier is struck dumb.

“Morning,” Geralt says, and—smiles. Wow. Okay.

“I drooled in your hair,” Jaskier says, because apparently Geralt smiling makes him stupid. He licks his lips nervously. “I mean. Good morning.”

Geralt touches him then, one broad hand on his shoulder and moving down his side, making Jaskier feel rather like a cat being stroked. The hand lingers on his hip, and it’s warm-–Geralt is always so warm, they’ve shared a bedroll on cold nights before, but now Jaskier is allowed to _enjoy_ it, and he does.

“Um,” Jaskier says eventually. He doesn’t feel uncomfortable under Geralt’s steady gaze, but he’s starting to feel like he _ought_ to feel uncomfortable. “Do we need to...talk?”

“Hmm,” Geralt says. “How about...” He shifts closer, so that their faces are only a breath apart. “You tell me if I do something that makes you think we need to talk.”

“Good so far,” Jaskier says, breathless, and Geralt moves that last half-inch closer and kisses him. Jaskier closes his eyes and tries to kiss back this time, to make it good, but there’s something so irresistible about letting Geralt lead this, letting himself just luxuriate in Geralt’s desire for him.

Geralt doesn’t seem to mind taking the lead, anyway; his hand tightens on Jaskier’s hip and slides lower, making Jaskier gasp against his mouth as his hips stutter forward on instinct. When Geralt bites his lip—tugging so lightly with his teeth, not even a hint of pain, not that Jaskier would object but this, this is very good too-–he gives up and moans, and clutches Geralt’s arm, and says, “Please...”

“Yes,” Geralt says, “yes,” his voice rough and hungry but still utterly unhurried. He moves lower, kissing Jaskier’s throat, sucking just hard enough that there’ll be a mark there later. Then lower, until he has to shove Jaskier’s undershirt up so he can keep going, leaving a methodical trail of kisses and love bites. By the time he scrapes his teeth over Jaskier’s hipbone, Jaskier is utterly undone, and mostly hard despite not even being touched yet.

“Geralt,” he says, voice shaking, and ventures to tangle his fingers in Geralt’s hair—not pulling, or even directing. Just touching, because he can’t not. Geralt’s eyes close for a second, and he rubs his cheek against Jaskier’s stiffening cock, looking positively blissful.

The noise that comes out of Jaskier’s mouth can only be described as “strangled.” Geralt’s eyes flick open and meet his.

“Want to talk yet?” he asks, with a wicked smile. It should look strange on his face—Jaskier’s certainly never seen anything like it before-–but somehow it doesn’t.

“Don’t tease,” he says-–half-says, half-moans, and is surprised by the earnestness in his own voice. “Not—not right now. Please…”

Geralt’s eyes soften. “Okay.” Which is all the warning Jaskier gets before Geralt is swallowing him, lips sinking down his length until they’re stretched around the root. His eyes flutter shut as he goes, and there’s that look of utter satisfaction again. Like he’s been given everything he ever wanted.

The blowjob that follows is, honestly, wasted on Jaskier in his present state; he blurrily registers “hot,” “wet,” and “ _good,_ ” but most of his conscious thought is devoted to staring at Geralt, memorizing the look on his face, the throaty sound he makes when Jaskier’s fingers tighten in his hair-–saving everything, remembering everything. As he tumbles closer to the edge, he’s startled and discomfited to feel a sudden tightness in his chest and thickening in his throat. Gods, he’s not going to _cry._ He’s not—this isn’t—he’s not.

“Close,” he chokes out, “gonna-–soon, do you want...”

Geralt pulls off with a sloppy wet sound and says, “Yeah, come in my mouth,” and Jaskier barely manages to hold off long enough to grant his request.

As soon as he can move again he pulls frantically at Geralt’s shoulders, needing him closer with an abrupt urgency that he’s not going to look at too closely. Geralt complies, crawling back up and kissing him hard, letting him taste himself, letting him feel Geralt’s hardness pressed against his hip. For a minute Jaskier just basks in the feeling of Geralt on top of him, heavy and firm, arms bracketing him securely.

“Jaskier,” Geralt rasps, and his hips start to move, short jerky thrusts as he works himself against Jaskier’s bare skin. And while the idea of lying here and letting Geralt rub off against him is unbelievably hot-–he can do better.

“Let me,” he says, and nudges Geralt onto his side, taking him in hand. He’s big enough to send a pleased shudder down Jaskier’s spine, but not unreasonable; there’s no question that Jaskier will be able to take him, when they get around to that. The thought tears a ragged curse from his lips, as he strokes Geralt with all the finesse he can manage.

Geralt says his name again, and again, and doesn’t close his eyes even when his voice dissolves into a ragged moan. He comes with his gaze still locked on Jaskier’s face, eyes wide, lips parted, looking like a man stunned at his good luck, and Jaskier couldn’t look away even if he wanted to.


End file.
